


A Road Not Taken

by Huehxolotl



Series: The Reflection That Almost Was [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Found Family, Gen, Just a fun story really, Lyse crushes on Y'shtola hard, More like The Bird That Was Never Chased, Y'shtola is a sarcastic little shit sometimes, Yda is Done with everything, sister bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-21 10:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16574768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huehxolotl/pseuds/Huehxolotl
Summary: In one universe, Lyse Hext lost her home and her family. After losing Yda, she spent years hiding her own face, watching friend after friend after friend die until she eventually took her place in the liberation of Ala Mhigo.In another universe, she lost her home, and her parents. Then, as a lonely child of ten years, she stumbles upon Matoya's Cave and, more importantly, the studious Y'shtola who lives within. A single meeting is all it takes to change bittersweet future that fate had in store for the Hext family.Or: Lyse is absolutely certain that Y'shtola is the most amazing person to ever walk upon Eorzea's soil, and no one is quite sure how to deal with this "little" crush.





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> What if Yda lived? Who hasn't asked themselves that question since Lyse's identity was revealed? I sure did, and then I wrote a lot of pages set in a world where she survived, until I wasn't satisfied anymore. I stopped asking "what if she survived the mission" and started wondering "what events could LEAD to a world where Yda doesn't die?"
> 
> So I scrapped 100 pages of writing, started over, and now here we are, fifteen years before A Realm Reborn.

**_ ~Lyse~ _ **

There is no doubt about it.

She’s lost.

Surveying the area, she takes in the mountains, the lush hills, the roaming blobs that are  _definitely_  monsters that will eat her if they find her, and the sun, high overhead. There’s no sign of Sharlayan, or any other familiar landmark; only mountains and cliffs and more mountains.

“Maybe trying to turn that funny bird into a mount was a bad idea,” she muses to herself.

Yda is going to be so mad at her, unless she is lost forever and starves to death or gets adopted by a pack of wild animals. Hmm. That sounds a lot more interesting than reading or practicing numbers or listening to scholars drone on about history. There’s less food though, and she hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

“I’m supposed to stay still when I’m lost, right? But if no one knows I’m lost, they won’t look for me to begin with.” She sighs and falls onto her back, wincing when her bruises and scratches remind her that they exist. That bird had put up a real fight before she was able to hop onto it, and then it ran through several bushes in an attempt to shake her off until it accepted its fate.

Staring at the flowers she is laying in she debates how edible they look and tries to recall her old herbology lessons without success. With her luck, they’re the kind for tea, and, well, she might be desperate enough to try boiling them if she had a fire and a pot and water.

Which she doesn’t.

“Excuse me, child.”

She blinks and tilts her head back, squinting when the sun hits her eyes.

A poroggo with a staff and pointy wizard hat stares at her. It pokes her. She grunts.

“You are destroying the flowers." 

“Oh. ...Sorry.” She crawls over to a grassy spot where she can’t ruin any of the flowers and hugs her knees. “Are you a familiar?”

“Yes,” the poroggo answers as it goes to work picking the flowers.

“So you...belong to a scholar then?”

“My master is an  _Archon_.”

“Oh, sorry. Are you picking those flowers for the, uh, Archon?”

 “...Yes. They are a key ingredient for her favorite tea.”

Ugh. So they are tea flowers. Her luck really is that bad, isn’t it?

Wait. An Archon is a person. From Sharlayan. So if the poroggo is picking flowers for an Archon, that means it will  _take_  them to the Archon. So if she follows it, she will get back to Sharlayan. Because all Archons live in Sharlayan!

Maybe she has some luck after all!

...She hopes the poroggo doesn’t spend too long picking flowers though. She’s really hungry.

_**~Y'shtola~** _

“Master. I have returned.”

Matoya grunts and waves her familiar off. Fully concentrated on her reading, she doubts her master has registered the words at all. The poroggo -well used to her master’s temperament and lack of manners- continues on with its task of preparing the tea without waiting for a response. The poroggo’s clatter is soft, hardly discernible in the large cave that serves as Matoya’s home. Only her enhanced hearing allows her to track the progress of the tea making, which she does until her own work fully recalls her attention.

It doesn’t last long.

“Something has triggered the wards.”

“Perhaps a beast thought to plunder the gardens again.”

Matoya scowls at her response. A flock of birds had torn through the gardens two sennights ago, leaving her master’s precious herbs in tatters. Much cursing and stomping around had ensued after that particular discovery, and she had been forced to retreat into the darker parts of the cave to avoid her master’s ire. Not that she isn’t capable of handling it, but she was in the middle of translating something interesting, and she hadn’t wanted to waste valuable time and patience dealing with Matoya’s irritable mood.

“Whatever the creature is, it’s quite persistent. How unusual. My guardians are still active.”

She frowns. Typically, wild animals are quick to retreat when the guardians prove to be too hard to kill. By nature, animals do not expend more energy than they have to, and fighting spellcasting poroggos requires more skill and energy than most  _humans_  have.

“Perhaps it is the child who insisted on following me.”

They both turn to stare at the poroggo, who continues making the tea without pausing.

Matoya scoffs. “No child can stand against my guardians this long,” she sneers.

“And what would a child be doing wandering the Hinterlands to begin with? It can’t have been unattended,” she muses, always one to focus on the important facts.

They are given a shrug. “It was a child. Alone. It was very dirty, and bleeding. I don’t know how or why it was there, though it did talk an alarming amount of the time it followed me. Mostly to itself. It wandered off before we reached the Delta, however.”

She isn’t sure what to make of the story, but her master waves at the entrance, silently demanding she check on whatever it is that has disturbed the guardians. Whether it is a child or a beast, it will need to be taken care of regardless.

The answer is clear from the moment she steps past the sound wards.

“Take that, you dumb poroggo!”

Dumbfounded, she watches as a Hyuran child wrestles with the two guardians. The entire scene is a cacophony of splashing, muffled thumps of creatures being hit, the child growling and yelping, and the familiars ribbiting in pain and anger. So taken aback, she forgets that she is meant to intervene until a well placed kick and a flash of aether launches one of the familiars several fulms away from the child. The weaponskill is poorly executed -hardly more than a badly controlled explosion that likely hurt the child as well- but the sheer power behind it is startling. With a flash of smoke and final ribbit of anger, the poroggo disappears.

Briefly, she considers waiting to see if the child truly  _can_  defeat the other guardian, thereby proving her master wrong. When the lone guardian manages to land a solid hit on the child’s ribs, however -rendering it immobile- she immediately cancels the ward. The creature disappears in a puff of smoke, and, with the threat gone, she strides over to the child as they fall onto the water with a splash and fit of coughing. It’s a young girl, she notices, though it’s difficult to tell with her ill-fitted red shirt and khaki shorts.

Crouching next to the girl’s head, she stares down at her and waits for an explanation.

“I. I was totally winning.”

She’ll give her credit for tenacity and audacity, if nothing else.  


“Wow, you have pretty eyes.”

A flatterer, is she? Holding back a smile, she asks, “Are you well enough to walk?”

The child blinks. “Yup! I can, I can do that. Once, uh, the world stops spinning.”

Shaking her head, she assists the girl to her feet, taking the chance to examine her. Gangly she may be, but there are clearly defined muscles on her arms, and many an adult would not have been capable of wrestling two poroggos when exhausted. As her master’s familiar had mentioned, the girl has several half-healed cuts and scratches, and her dirt-stained clothes are now soaking wet.

The girl allows herself to be led into the cave, oddly subdued for the amount of energy that she witnessed hardly a breath ago. Perhaps her adrenaline has dropped. She has a feeling the girl has been lost -truly lost, for what other reason could the girl have for being out so far- for much of the day.

“Master, the girl requires a potion,” she announces without preamble.

Matoya starts. “An actual child? What in the god’s name are you doing out here?”

“Defeating your guardians,” she says with a smirk, relishing the scowl she is given for her cheek.

The girl grabs the back of her shirt and shuffles close in a poor attempt to hide from Matoya. “Sorry,” she mumbles nervously.

Irrationally, she feels a rush of protectiveness. Sending her master a warning glare that is blatantly ignored, she places her arm around the girl’s shoulders and pushes her toward one of the wooden stools. “It is of no consequence. I need to check your injuries. What hurts?”

“I’m fine!” the girl blurts out. “I don’t want to bother-”

She narrows her eyes at the girl, who wisely quits her protest and looks down at her feet.

Rubbing her elbow nervously, she says sheepishly, “...Everything?”

“Give the brat a hi-potion,” Matoya says as she pretends to check on the progress of her tea. “And some new clothes. She reeks.”

The girl leans into her side, head brushing against her bicep as she tugs at her shirt mournfully. “My name is  _Lyse_ ,” she whispers defiantly.

Good, she has some spirit left after all. “After we get you cleaned up and healed, you can tell us how you traveled this far into the Hinterlands by yourself.”

Lyse’s stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, prompting her to turn bright red and cover her face with her hands, mortified at the noise.

“...We shall prepare you some food as well.”

“Who is this “we” you’re talking about?” her master demands angrily. 

“The familiars and I, obviously.”

“Who gave you leave to order around  _my_  familiars, in  _my_  home, you insolent child?”

“As you refuse to do anything  _useful_ , it falls to me, your apprentice, to ensure matters are taken care of. We would not want overly stress you in your advanced age, now would we?”

Lyse laughs softly at their banter, unbothered by their borderline rude words and tone. Neither of them, she admits to herself, are well-suited for receiving visitors. Lyse, however, proves to be a perfectly congenial child, taking the potions without complaint and thanking them eagerly for the food before she tells her story. She can’t decide if she is impressed or appalled by how the girl wound up so far away from Sharlayan -it takes a fair amount of bravery to attempt to ridea cloudkin, much less actually do so for several malms- as she serves her more food. 

“While it would be more prudent to travel in the morning, I do believe we ought to get you home to your family, to alleviate their worry,” she says after it appears that Lyse is finished eating. Rather, she hopes the girl is done, for the amount of food that she has so far consumed is somewhat alarming.

“There’s no one to worry,” Lyse says absently, arms crossed and gaze intent upon the food before her. “My parents died in Ala Mhigo, and Yda is busy studying and working. She has late shifts all week, so she won’t even be home until tomorrow night.” 

She tries not to cringe from the awkwardness that descends upon the cave. Ala Mhigo. The girl is an orphaned refugee, part of the group that came to Sharlayan some years ago. Lyse seems unbothered by the confession, focused as she is on finishing yet another biscuit. 

“If that’s the case,” Matoya says, accepting the information with her usual lack of sympathy, “Shtola can see you back in the morning.” 

Lyse looks ready to argue, but thinks better of it as her master returns to her reading. Frowning at her, she apologizes for being a burden, the guilt clear in her eyes. 

“Hardly. The walk will be far easier for me than it will for you, I suspect.” 

_**~Y'mhitra~** _

After a long morning of arguing with some of her more stubborn peers, she had retreated to her small apartment in the Answering Quarter for lunch, promising her colleagues that she would return within a bell.

She hadn’t counted on her wayward half-sister arriving on her doorstep, carrying a Hyur child on her back and asking for food.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you for the first time in nine years, Shtola, but I won’t deny that I have some questions about your appearance,” she says with a sigh. Her sister’s ears twitch forward, her tail swings to the side, and a light smirk appears on her lips. It may have been closer to a god’s set than not since her sister was taken to train under Archon Matoya, but she remembers well the signs that precede a blithe, sometimes snarky, comment. Firmly, she steps aside and motions them inside. “You can explain while I prepare some food. Your timing is impeccable; I am taking a lunch break myself.”

“Thank you.”

“I would have been okay with stopping by a vendor while I did some food shopping,” the girl says, bright blue eyes peeking over Shtola’s shoulder cautiously.

By the twelve is she adorable, but shouldn’t a child her age be in lessons at this time of day? Why would she need to do her own grocery shopping, why is she with Shtola, and why is she covered in welts and scratches? The strangeness of this situation only grows with every passing second.

“In order to go out to the market, you would first need to be capable of walking,” Shtola scoffs, brusque tone at odds with how gently she lets the child down.

“I made it most of the way here!”

“Lyse, you are not going to waste all of my efforts to heal you, simply out of stubbornness.” 

Oh yes, because Shtola is one to speak of being stubborn? Hah.

“Food is an essential need!” Lyse proclaims with satisfied nod. “Especially when I’m growing, and  _especially_  when I use aether. Or. Try to.”

An aether user? What a handful. Perhaps she should prepare a heartier meal than a sandwich. Growing children need extra food, do they not? 

“And your  _adult sister_  should be seeing to your essential needs.”

“She’s busy and forgets sometimes. The shopkeepers always give me extra snacks when Igo, anyway. They even give me easy recipes to learn! I can make four kinds of soup, and I don’t always burn the meat, so it’s fine.”

A child, cooking for herself? At that age? Pausing her current food preparations, she fetches the sweetbread she had meant to save for dinner and hands it over to her sister to cut. While Lyse is distracted by the food, she exchanges a concerned glance with Shtola, who only shrugs and shakes her head. She has no clue as to how to proceed with this situation either.

 “How old are you, Lyse? Don’t you have lessons?” she asks her young guest curiously.

Lyse scowls. “I’m ten, and lessons are boring. I don’t care about the geography of Eorzea, and I already finished my numbers packet for the sennight. I can miss a few lessons.”

Ah,  _that_  sort of child. 

“How did you get so injured?”

Lyse grins mischievously at her while Shtola sighs, and she thinks she might regret asking. “I fought a cloudkin and rode it for a few malms. I wanted to turn it into a mount! But it got tired of me and it knocked me off. Then I got lost, and found a poroggo, and followed it, and then I was attacked by Master Matoya’s other poroggos, so I wrestled them. And I totally had them! But Shtola saved me. Not that I needed saving, because I was winning, but it was nice of her to save the poroggo, I guess. She gave me food too. And clothes. And she healed me!”

“...Oh,” she says faintly, taking in the girl’s plain clothes that do in factbear a heavy resemblance to the style Shtola favored as a child. “That's...quite a story.” She truly wants to believe that Lyse is exaggerating certain parts of her story, but Shtola does not correct her; only smirks and pokes at the girl’s arm teasingly. 

“You neglected to mention the fact that you could not lift yourself off the bedroll this morning, you were so sore.”

It would have been rude to laugh at how Lyse sinks into the chair, blushing bright red even through her sunburn, but she is so very tempted to.

“And that is why Shtola was carrying you?” Lyse looks embarrassed enough to consider taking refuge under the table, and she actually does laugh. Softly, of course, but she doesn’t think it makes much of a difference to the poor child.  “Apologies. I promise to quit the teasing. The food is ready."

The girl pouts, but the promise of food brightens her mood. As strange as her day has turned, it’s certainly more interesting than arguing with puffed up scholars who can’t be bothered to read properly. Does she really need to return to work so soon? It  _has_  been over nine years since her sister left. As dedicated as Shtola is, it might yet be another nine before she sees her again.

“If you insist on heading to the market, we can go after we finish eating,” Shtola says as she investigates the contents of her food. Does her sister prefer onions or dislike them? She cannot recall.

“We?”

“I was given a list of items to purchase while I am here.” 

“Then why didn’t we just go there?" 

“I wanted to visit Mhitra.”

Foregoing all formalities, are they? Shtola must be fond of the child, despite seeming mostly perplexed on how to handle her limitless energy and good cheer. 

Giving the answer some serious thought, Lyse nods firmly. “Oh. Okay!” 

She questions the easy acceptance of being taken to a stranger’s house, by another stranger only recently met. Does the girl not have any survival instincts? Not even Sharlayan is free from crime, after all. No child should be that trusting.

“So what do we need from the market?” she asks, awed and unsettled by the speed with which Lyse’s hearty sandwich is now disappearing.

Taking a moment to swallow, Lyse tilts her head and asks, “Wait, you too?” 

“My peers give me a headache,” she says flatly. “I need time away from them.” 

“You sound like Shtola! You really are sisters,” Lyse declares, amused by what most people would consider a rude statement.

“Heavens forbid.”

“Hmph. Hardly.”

They both pause, then sigh at each other as the girl laughs.

 “Let’s just eat, please.”

“You’re the ones not eating! I’m already done! ...Do you want that-”

Shtola hastily pulls her plate away from Lyse’s reach with a scowl, ears dropping dangerously low. “ _Yes_.” 

Laughing at her sister’s defensiveness, she directs the child’s attention to the corner of the kitchen. “I have some faerie apples in the cold box, if you want one. Or two. 

“Please and thank you!”

After finishing lunch, and spending bells longer at the market than planned -effectively partners in crime to Lyse’s truancy- they escort the young girl home, all with arms full of groceries and snacks that none of them could resist buying.

“I’ll be sure to check up on her when I can,” she assures her sister as they walk back to the Maker’s Quarter. Not that either of them think Lyse is in danger; just lonely and slightly more unsupervised than any child with her amount of energy and boldness should be. “Though I do believe she would be pleased if you manage to take time out of your busy schedule to attend the festival next moon.”

Shtola hums and considers her invitation; an invitation that is only partially on Lyse’s behalf. Different mothers they may have, but they are still sisters, and she fears Shtola drifting away again.

“She did say that she has few, if any, friends amongst her peers, and she appeared quite taken with you."

That isn’t, judging from the huff her sister gives, the correct way to go about luring her away from Matoya’s strict tutelage for a night, but neither is it a lie. She won’t go so far as to claim that Lyse has a  _crush_  on Shtola, but it had been clear that the girl holds her in high regard after her “rescue.” A regard that was not discouraged in the least by Shtola’s casual demonstration -showing off- of various spells throughout the day.

“I cannot guarantee my presence, but I shall mark the date.”

_** ~Y’shtola~ ** _

The Sharlayan Moon Festival -a yearly occurrence meant to celebrate the founding of the colony- had once been a small affair, but as the colony grew to a city in its own right, it became a holiday deserving of two days free from work and lessons. Instead, the citizens were tasked with decorating the streets and buildings for the festival night, including the Answering Quarter and Maker’s Quarter.

She hasn’t attended the festival since before her apprenticeship, and as she works on decorating the main street leading to the Cenotaph, she regrets whatever sentimentality drove her to attend this year. It may be the last festival before the colony is abandoned, and her sister may have insisted on her attendance, and she may have a present for that willful child that had stumbled upon Matoya’s home three sennights ago, but are such things truly worth being forced to work in the hot sun at midday? And in the middle of the Answering Quarter, no less. All these people and animals and familiars crowding around her, making noise. It’s nearly unbearable.

Matoya, along with two others she immediately ascertains to be Fourchenault and Louisoix Leveilleur, enters her field of vision, waving her over to join them. “Enjoying yourself, girl?” she asks with a smirk, taking note of the dust streaks on her now exposed arms. “With a few more cuts, you’ll be as dirty as that brat was.”

Scowling, she vainly attempts to wipe some of the dust off her arms while idly noticing how people suddenly give their group a wide berth. Most likely, they are intimidated by the presence of two Archons and a member of the Forum, and she senses some curious stares centered on herself. “Hard work does tend to have that effect. Perhaps if you stretch your memory some hundred years back, you may recall once having the vigor for such things,” she quips indignantly.

Fourchenault abruptly coughs, covering his mouth to hide his smile, while his father openly laughs.

“Impudent brat. Laugh all you want, Louisoix. She’ll be  _your_  problem soon enough,” Matoya snarls, glaring daggers at her peer and nemesis for having the audacity to laugh.

Louisoix nods at her. “I’ve yet to make an offer, Matoya.”

“It involves being nosy and traveling out into Eorzea,” her master adds glibly. 

“I’ll accept. What-”

“SHTOLA!”

She has enough time to twitch her ears and partially turn toward the source of the yell before she is hit with a hug so aggressive that it borders on being labeled an  _attack_. Only her natural Miqo’te sense of balance keeps her from toppling over, though she is almost certain she’s going to be bruised nonetheless.

“Hello, Lyse,” she greets, voice pained from the aching of her ribs and stomach. How can a child so skinny hit so hard?

“You came! And you too, Master Matoya? Is Mhitra nearby? I haven’t seen her today because I had to help put up decorations. They wouldn’t even let me train!”

“She is-”

 “I was supposed to stay with my class, but they were taking forever to decorate so I ran away as soon as I finished my stuff. I don’t like them anyway. They’re mean. But then Papalymo tried to make me work on my history packet, on a festival day, so I’m avoiding him and Yda right now.”

“Lyse.”

“What are you working on? Do you need help? If they happen to find me, they’ll leave me alone if I’m working. But not training, because Yda said that doesn’t count and-”

Groaning, she shoves her satchel at the girl, abruptly halting the flood of words. “Try those on for me.”

Louisoix alone is amused by Lyse’s sudden appearance and subsequent rambling; Matoya is unimpressed as expected -though she does spare a snicker when she rubs her aching side discreetly- and Fourchenault’s expression is carefully blank in a way that suggests he is straining to hide his distaste. Automatically, she deems the last to possess an undesirable personality.

Matoya frowns and squints at the gloves that Lyse eagerly pulls out of the satchel. “Is that the little project you’ve been working on for the last two sennights?”

She nods. “They’re spelled and constructed to assist in channeling aether. There are seven levels of activation, which ought to be suitable for-”

The gloves flare to life, glowing runes floating above the back of her hands. The runes pulse rapidly, a sign of severely uneven aether distribution. Lyse, positively  _vibrating_  from excitement, starts jabbing at the air. 

“And you’ve skipped straight to level three,” Matoya informs them needlessly. “Go practice over there, where you can’t accidentally hit someone. Don’t punch anything. You need to accustom yourself to how it channels your aether first. Make the pulsing stop.”

“Yes, Master Matoya!”

With Lyse safely -in a manner of speaking- distracted, they return to their previous topic. Constant travel from the Motherland to the other city-states, access to rare tomes, dealing with the leaders of Eorzea. “Helping the people.” It’s a grand goal, and while she cannot say that she is fully invested in it, the idea of traveling is too exciting to pass up. Her master has always insisted that she needs to experience the world, not simply study it, and it is advice that she is more than willing to take. She reiterates her acceptance, and receives an assurance that the group will not begin operations until the relocation.

That gives her five moons to complete any ongoing projects and prepare for travel. Mhitra will be unhappy that she will be leaving so quickly after her training. She will have to remember to visit and write more frequently.

At some point during the conversation, Fourchenalt had left them. She hadn’t paid it any attention, but when their discussions come to an end, she discovers that he has decided to instruct Lyse, in a manner of speaking. He is fully caught up in lecturing the girl, who is nodding seriously as she slowly flows through a set of fighting stances.

Her gloves glow as brightly as they had when she started, and the glow is steadier. Idly, she wonders if perhaps she had set the limits too low. The gloves are an experiment; she has never created any such tool before, having had to reverse engineer the spells from Matoya's spare training tools. It was a sufficient distraction from her own stalled research, made more enjoyable by virtue of it being new to her.

Catching her straying gaze, Matoya glances over to the two and snorts. “She’s going to be a monster, when she’s older. Her control has improved noticeably after a mere half a bell of using her new toys. I pity her trainer. Then again, perhaps not, as they’re clearly incompetent.” 

“She has no trainer,” she says, attempting to recall any stories of her training that Lyse had shared three sennights ago. Most involved spying on older warriors and attempting to recreate weaponskills while hiding from whomever was charged with ensuring she completed her work packets. “Not a personal one, at any rate. The occasional spar with her sister and fellow refugees involve naught but basic instruction.”

She has no personal experience to judge Lyse’s martial arts abilities against, no knowledge of what level of aether control a budding fighter should have at ten years old; from the incredulous looks Matoya and Louisoix give her, she suspects that whatever constitutes “normal,” Lyse is far from it.

“There are options I can present to her sister and sponsor. Papalymo is-”

“Oh no, what has she gotten a hold of?” Mhitra says from behind her. Catching the smell of freshly cooked food wafting from the package in her sister’s hands, her stomach aches sharply, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten since the night before and has been working for bells.

Mhitra is greeted warmly by Louisoix and indifferently by her master. Having also been conscripted into bespelling decorations, they have not seen each other since their brief meeting this morning. Unlike herself, however, her sister had apparently been freed from her duties long enough ago that she had been able to endure the crowded food stalls and order enough food for five people. 

Or, in their case, enough food for themselves and Lyse. Had Mhitra known that Lyse would find them? She hadn’t mentioned any plans involving the girl this morning.

“I created them,” she explains after proper formalities have taken place. “They’re simple training aids, to improve aether control.” Mhitra gives her an aggrieved look, prompting her to ask, “...Was that not proper?”

Her sister sighs and shakes her head with a wry smile. “On the contrary, it’s brilliant. I have noted that she is a highly visual learner. Control is a great struggle for her, in spite of her otherwise natural affinity for aether use. She will benefit from any extra help, but if you’re going to be encouraging her growth to this level, I must insist you train with her for at least three days per sennight.”

The request catches her off guard; so much so that she cannot formulate a rejection before Mhitra continues.

“I had intended to make the request later tonight, but as you’ve so kindly shown an interest yourself...” Mhitra trails off, heedless of her own grumbled denial of any such interest. “She is fartoo active for me to keep up with. Believe me, I have tried. Her distaste for reading will not endear her to many scholars, and though I can make a personal request for someone to teach her, I’ll not allow her to be taught by one whose knowledge is only shared grudgingly.”

The idea of it makes her as indignant as Mhitra sounds. Scholars, for all their claims of open-mindedness, tend to be as haughty and exclusionist as the rest of Eorzea. Even more so, if Matoya’s endless complaints throughout the years are to be believed. She is ill-inclined to test those claims with Lyse, who does not deserve to endure the prejudices of self-important Sharlayans. 

“Ah, my apprenticeship.”

“You’ve no formal schedule now,” Matoya quickly interjects, quite amused by her sister’s order.

“Her lessons?” she asks, hopefully not as desperately as she feels.

Mhitra shrugs. “She has been put into the Studium track, but I would suggest she be switched over to general classes. While she may not necessarily lack the intelligence to pass her courses with dedicated studying, I do believe she has a different calling. ...One that doesn’t involve quite as much reading.”

Louisoix promises to present the suggestion to Yda Hext, and several options for course tracks are argued among them, with plenty of acerbic comments from Matoya concerning the abilities of the various scholars mentioned. Having no wisdom to contribute, she remains silent as she resigns herself to the fact that she has been named a “teacher” for the foreseeable future.

Well. Certain as she is that Mhitra is using Lyse to lure her into town more frequently, she cannot deny that the experience promises to be interesting.

_** ~Matoya~ ** _

Sipping her tea -the fourth cup for the day- she watches her student dig through books with dogged determination. There are several small piles of them on her table; most for her current research topic, but there are no few dedicated to the basics of aether control and use, and a handful concerning martial arts.

Two sennights into her new position as a “trainer” for Lyse Hext has seen Shtola inventing half a gods set worth of control exercises, enchanting countless tools for physical training, and grumbling at the uselessness of practically any hunter-scholar that interacts with her new trainee. The last, of course, she heartily approves of. Neither does it surprise her. To be a refugee is a hard life, and there are many Sharlayans who are, if not outright scornful, unkind to those who had been forced to flee their homeland. Then there is Lyse’s odd way of learning to take into account. Sharlayans are used to lecturing and directing children to books and essays; a method that is near pointless for  _that_  child, as has been determined.

“I take it your student is progressing well?” she asks as Shtola firmly shuts one of the books and turns her attention to some pieces of leg armour.

“It’s a work in progress,” is the absent reply. “She channels aether nearly as easily as she breathes, but cannot control it well. She simply has access to  _too much_  aether for her age. For a blessing, she is eager to learn, and is not frustrated with what appears to be a lack of progress.”

Such a problem is unusual, but not discouraging in the least for Shtola, who thrives on challenge more than she deigns to admit. That attitude is the reason they have managed to get along so well -as much as she gets along with  _anyone_ \- for the last ten years; is why her stubborn student is the perfect trainer for that headstrong young Ala Mhigan. Any child who tries to turn a wild animal into a mount for  _fun_  is a fitting challenge for Shtola.

“So you’re going to physically train her into exhaustion and force her to work on her control when she has less to work with?”

Shtola looks away from her spellcasting to send her a smirk. “A method I learned from yourself.”

She scoffs. “Did I say I disapproved? No, if anything, that will keep her out of trouble.”

“A perk of such training methods, to be sure.”

Three suns later, Shtola is wincing as she gingerly takes her seat for dinner. A polite person would not laugh at her obvious pain. 

Unfortunately for her student, none have ever dared utter “Archon Matoya” and “polite” in the same breath.

“And here I thought your plan was to work  _her_  into exhaustion!” she cackles with delight. “Did she take you for a training dummy?” 

Shtola glares, ears nearly flat against her skull out of sheer annoyance. For a child that enjoys teasing others, she does not much appreciate it when the tables are turned. “She argued that I should join in her stamina training when I informed her that I would be traveling after the colony is abandoned. I humored her in the interest of settling her worries and saving time. She showed signs of being stubborn about the issue, and my sister did naught but encourage her.” 

Humming, she examines the girl while she cuts her steak. Shtola is visibly exhausted and moves ponderously, but otherwise seems to be unharmed. “If training with a child put you in that condition, it’s hard to argue her point,” she says snidely. “Unless her martial arts trainer gave you a more difficult routine.”

Carefully pouring herself a drink, Shtola grimaces. “She does not yet have a formal trainer. I discovered that Lyse has a personal routine she performs every morning, and it is anything but basic. She can clearly handle herself in thatregard. At this rate, I’m tempted to simply request that she be given only sparring training until we locate a proper pugilist to teach her.”

She laughs again, but allows her student to eat in peace. Lyse Hext has a point, after all; the outside world is dangerous. Spells and book knowledge will not serve as protection from every danger lurking in the shadows. Sometimes, a fight cannot be won. Sometimes, merely surviving will be the best outcome. It is a lesson she has learned the hard way, and her student is set to do the same.

Honestly, saddling Shtola with the girl has turned out better than she expected. Her student is being forced to socialize, become reacquainted with her sister, and take on a level of physical training that she would formerly have shunned. How convenient it is that Shtola’s apparent weakness is a child with a smile brighter than the sun, and that one such child would stumble upon her home.


	2. Distance

_**~Yda~** _

Returning home to a dark, silent house isn’t anything new. She spends most of her days studying to become an Archon and working to support herself and Lyse, which means she often arrives home long after her sister has gone to sleep. There are only two days out of the sennight that she can make it home before dinner -assuming she doesn’t need to study for a test- and spend some time with her baby sister.

Today is one of those days, but instead of a warm, lit apartment with the orchestrion playing and her sister procrastinating her lesson packets within the confines of a blanket fort, she finds herself alone.

And so it has been for the last _three sennights_.

Lyse had found herself some sort of private tutor, according to Louisoix Leveilleur. She hadn’t been sure what surprised her more at the time: that a respected Archon from a high ranked family and Papalymo’s teacher approached her, or that he had approached her about her _sister_. Lyse is many things, but a scholar is not one of them, and she is more an eager fighter than a skilled one. How had she, then, come to the attention of a man as renowned as Leveilleur?

Taking her off the Studium course.

Giving her access to the hunter’s training yard.

Giving her a trainer for aether control.

She hadn’t been sure how to take it then, and she isn’t sure how she feels about it now. Papalymo has unwavering trust in his teacher, but she just can’t figure out _why_ he’s going out of his way for Lyse. Other than her friend, there are few she trusts in this city, which is determined to ignore the plight of the outside world. The Sharlayans may have allowed the refugees to stay, but there is no denying that they are not fully accepted by many of the people. By many in the Forum.

Savages. Brutes. She knows what they think of Ala Mhigans. But it’s fine. Their opinions don’t matter to her; it’s the power of an Archon that she needs.

Her thoughts keep her occupied while she prepares dinner, keeping careful watch on the meat. She is no master culinarian, and their dinners are often simple, but the least she can do is not burn their food. Dinner is nearly done when the main door opens.

“Lyse? What, did you smell the food from-” Cutting herself off, she stares at the stranger in her doorway.

A stranger that is...carrying her sister on her back.

“She is sleeping,” the stranger says nonchalantly. The woman -a Miqo’te- has short, white hair, striking teal eyes, and a casually confident aura. Something about her is vaguely familiar. She’s young, maybe around her age, but they don’t share any classes. There would be no forgetting her, if they did.

“Are you going to take her, or may I put her down in bed? My arms are sore.”

Blushing, she hopes her foolish gaping didn’t give the woman the impression that she is _interested_ in her. Not that she isn’t pretty, because she is. Her tastes don’t run towards the fairer sex, but she isn’t going to lie and say that she isn’t at least a little nervous. She’s in her pajamas, after all.

_...By Rhalgr,_ she is wearing her pajamas. Suddenly, she wishes there was a wall between the kitchen and living room.

“Right. Sorry. Um. Our room is the doorway on the right. I need to watch dinner,” she says, making a point to continue stirring the beans.

To the surprise of both adults, Lyse stirs. “Food?” she asks, voice groggy and faint. Familiar blue eyes peek over the stranger’s shoulder. “Hey, Yda. ...I’m home?”

She rolls her eyes and fights a smile. “You _would_ wake up for food. Dinner is almost ready, if you’re up for eating.”

Lyse nods as the woman gently lets her down. Wincing at the movement, she nevertheless is able to support herself, though not without some wobbling. Dirt rises from her shoes, which used to be black at some point. Now they’re brown; a match for the stains on her shirt, pants, and face.

No way is Lyse going to sleep without taking a shower today, whatever aches she has be damned.

Grinning brightly up at her friend -not that she’s sure they’re friends- her sister says, “Yda, this is-”

“Y’shtola Rhul,” the stranger interrupts smoothly as she helps Lyse walk over to the dining table.

“Oh, uh. Hi. Yda Hext. Not that you...don’t already know that, I think. Because. You know. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you.” By Rhalgr she sounds like an idiot, but she’s just so confused and curious and also really tired. Not to mention hungry. She has been running between class and work for the last four days, and she can count the amount of bells she has slept on one hand.

Y’shtola’s lips twitch into a smirk that is softened only by the amusement in her eyes. “Likewise. I apologize for entering without permission.”

“What?” she asks blankly, before remembering that no, Y’shtola hadn’t knocked or announced her presence. Gods, she really is determined to make a fool out of herself tonight. What happened to her usual calm and aloofness? “Oh, right! No, it’s fine, I assure you. Thank you for bringing her home, though I’m sorry you had to carry her,” she says, glancing down at Lyse.

“You’re acting weird,” her sister, who is staring at her suspiciously, declares firmly. “Is it because she’s pretty?”

“ _No_ ,” she hisses, acutely aware of Rhul watching them, still smirking. Briefly, she contemplates tossing Lyse out the window. It isn’t like she’d put up a fight, and she doesn’t weigh much. Why is that the first thing her mind goes to, anyway? She isn’t old enough to be caring about that sort of thing!

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“It’s okay to like her. She’s smart and strong and pretty.”

“ _Who’s_ the one that likes her here?!”

Lyse scowls. “You’re burning the food.”

She doesn’t curse, but she comes close to it when she notices that the meat is starting to sizzle. Internally grumbling about little sisters, strangers, and the culinary arts that she cannot seem to master, she turns off the small stove and divides their portions without comment. Their visitor tries to take her leave, but cannot escape without Lyse shoving a handful of her precious lemon cookies at her and playfully ordering her to keep her energy up.

Rhul accepts them with an indulgent smile, an expression she doesn’t often see directed at her sister. Usually it’s rolled eyes and scowls that are given to Lyse, or any other refugee, to be honest. Fully curious now, she waits until the woman has left and dinner is served before she questions her sister.

The interrogation is easy; once Lyse starts rambling about her new friend, it’s impossible to get her to stop.

Y’shtola Rhul. Sister of the up and coming historian Y’mhitra Rhul. Student of the infamous Archon Matoya. First-rate healer. Incredible spellcaster. Soon to be Archon. Enjoys spending time with Lyse.

She sounds too good to be true, but she keeps her doubts to herself. It would be rude of her to spoil her sister’s excitement and borderline hero worship. There are plenty of other ways she can find _unbiased_ information on Rhul, after all.

“How did you meet her, exactly?”

“....Uh. That. So. I kinda tried to...turn a cockatrice into a mount? And I did! For malms! But I, um, got lost. Then I wrestled some poroggos.”

“You did _what_?!”

“Aaaaaand then Shtola saved me. And I met Master Matoya, and I slept in a cave, and then I met Mhitra! But I should bathe and-”

“Don’t you _dare_ think that you’re getting away with that crappy explanation!”

_**~Lyse~** _

Downtrodden, she sits before her makeshift memorial and lights a small candle. Today is the five year anniversary of the invasion of Ala Mhigo. The five year anniversary of her father’s death. Like every other year, she made her way to a cliff overlooking the Hinterlands, just outside of the city.

She has a vague memory of watching the sunset in Ala Mhigo with her mother. While she doesn’t know if it’s a true memory, or just a dream conjured by Yda’s claim that they did so often, she decided that honoring their memory every year in a spot like this is proper.

“It’s just me again, this year. Yda’s working, but I’m sure you’re okay with that,” she says. “Papalymo says she is set to enter the Studium on the advanced courses track when we move to the islands. She hasn’t trained with me as much, because of all the studying she has to do. I think she hopes to get an actual _house_ in Sharlayan. It seems kind of silly, because she isn’t home very often, but it would be nice to have more space.”

Her talking is the only noise that fills the area. She tells her parents everything about Yda, about Sharlayan, and about the other refugees that they once knew, until her stomach grumbles and she has to eat.

“I’m doing alright, I guess. Just training. I don’t have to study as much, since they said I don’t have to go to the Studium,” she mumbles through a mouthful of sweet bread. Hugging her knees, she watches the flame as it sputters in the breeze. It’s nearly dark now, but she doesn’t want to go home. “I think I might not be a nice person.”

The confession hurts, but she tells them about it anyway, about how ever since the night Shtola had taken her home, Yda has been around more. She has even started showing up when she’s training with Shtola, or eating out with both the Rhul sisters. And where Yda goes, Papalymo inevitably follows. It’s nice that four of her favorite people get along, even if there’s something strange about the way Yda and Shtola interact at times.

She loves her sessions with Shtola, her time with Mhitra, who is always willing to help her with homework when she works up the courage to ask, and talking to her sister or Papalymo.

Except.

When you get three, sometimes four, scholars in the same place, conversations become rather...boring. The adults speak of things she has no interest in, and she wanders off to continue training, or eats in silence. It took a moon of it becoming a normal occurrence before she realized that it bothers her, and two more sennights before she pinpointed the issue.

She feels left out. Just like in class, or around the other refugees, or living in Sharlayan in general. The persistent feeling of not belonging -something she thought she was well used to- settles under her skin, driving her to push her training harder so that she doesn’t have the energy to feel _anything_. How terrible, how _selfish_ a person must she be, for her to be unhappy that the others have become friends? That they’re spending time together?

“It makes sense,” she tells them with a sniffle. “They’re all adults, like to read, and are strong. The other refugees always say that Yda is amazing, just like you were. They’re all special. Not like...”

_Not like me_.

She can’t say those words, not out loud. She hears them enough, in some form or fashion.

Hears them when the adult refugees compare her to her family; the subtle insinuations that she doesn’t measure up.

Hears them when teachers despair over her disinclination toward reading and her difficulty in remembering dates.

Hears them when trainers -except Shtola and Mhitra- scoff at her troubles with controlling aether.

Usually, she doesn’t let it bother her. She doesn’t want to be _better_ than Yda or anything. The only thing that matters is her sister and her dream -their dream?- of reclaiming their home.

“What’s wrong with me?”

Her parents can offer no answer. Maybe they’re busy watching Yda from the Great Beyond. If she were them, she would be too.

The sun drops below the horizon, her candle gutters out, and she doesn’t move as she should. It’s easier to be alone in the wild than alone in her apartment, and way more scenic.

Okay, maybe not scenic in the _dark_ , though the distant blue and white lights of the Maker’s Quarter and Answering Quarter shine like stars through the blurriness her tears cause. Yawning, she internally debates returning home. It’s starting to get cold, and her body is heavy. A sad consequence of pushing herself in training is that she is always sore, and staying still for so long has made her muscles stiff. Is moving worth the pain? Napping would be nice, really.

No. She should nap at home.

But she doesn’t want to move.

But what if she gets eaten by a fiend?

Would that be more painful than standing up?

She yawns again, hugging her knees tighter.

Warm food would be nice. Definitely worth forcing herself to walk.

She just needs...a minute. To gather strength.

“You shouldn’t linger here at night.”

Yelping, she tries to jump to her feet, only for her frozen muscles to betray her. She winds up toppling over, narrowly missing her memorial to hit the grass with a muffled thump. “Don’t eat me!”

Shtola sighs. “A beast would hardly take the time to announce its presence.”

Her limbs may be frozen, but the amount of blood that rushes to her cheeks makes her face feel aflame. Mumbling an apology, she timidly packs up her memorial and climbs to her feet with a wince. Is she in trouble? She feels like she’s in trouble. Shtola leads the way back into Sharlayan without saying a word. Not that Shtola is one to talk a whole lot, but it makes her nervous either way.

Fretting about it the entire way home, she has no reprieve when her trainer lightly admonishes her for staying out so late unaccompanied. She nods and fidgets with the straps on her backpack, determined to keep her gaze on the floor of the hallway.

A hand reaches out to grasp her shoulder. “Lyse...are you alright?” she asks, tone soft and worried.

Normally, she would laugh off a question like that, but not today. Today, now, all she can do is shudder because _no it’s not okay she’s a horrible person_ but that is her problem not Shtola’s and even though she wants to cry, wants to hug someone, anyone, she can't bring herself to do it.

Clenching her jaw, she takes a deep breath, and pushes away her feelings. Somehow, she forces herself to give Shtola her best smile -without meeting her gaze- and says, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for staying out and making you walk me back here. I’ll see you next sennight.” And then she retreats into her apartment before any more questions can be asked, before _she_ thinks to ask what Shtola was doing out there.

Rushing to her bed, she barely remembers to take off her shoes and drop her backpack before diving under the blankets, basking in the warmth.

“I’m fine,” she whispers to herself. “I’m fine.”

Maybe if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.

_**~Y’shtola~** _

“If you can quit your sulking for a moment, I need you to finish this.” Matoya, never one to sound impressed, is even less so than usual.

She sneers, but shakes herself out of her thoughts nonetheless. There is no denying that her mind has been occupied by something other than spells and research for the last sennight. What started as a slight suspicion is now concrete concern.

Something is wrong with Lyse, and she doesn’t know what it is, or how to help. Mhitra has been unable to provide any insight, and Yda Hext…

Well. She has not asked the woman, but she is certain that Yda, oblivious to all things Lyse as she is, would not know either.

“Oh for the love of. What has your student done that has left you incapable of concentrating on even the simplest of tasks?” Matoya growls when she does not immediately complete her work.

“Why do you presume it concerns Lyse?”

“Oh? Do you have other friends? I wasn’t aware.”

They glare at each other until she turns away to finish her work. Had she not been so distracted, it would have been done long ago. Little wonder that Matoya is irritated. Her master has never been accused of patience.

“She has been acting strangely,” she finally admits, realizing that she has no other options for advice. “I have not discerned _why_ , however. For a child as expressive as she is, she is disturbingly adept at hiding her emotions.”

Recalling the smile she had been given a sennight ago, she sighs and leans back into her chair. It hadn't sat well with her, and Lyse's abrupt departure was not encouraging either.

“I don’t understand why this surprises you,” Matoya says with a scoff, hardly faltering in her potion making. “The girl is as insecure as they come, and more than a bit neglected, to tell the truth. With her personality, it is a disaster in the making. You’d have an easier time convincing her to read all of A History of the Ages than convincing her to admit to her emotional troubles.”

The assessment causes her to frown and tap her cheek as she considers the words. “She can be shy at times...but insecure? Neglected?” She has never seen anything but bravery and determination from Lyse when she is faced with difficult problems, or when she fails to make noticeable progress. In fact, her dogged perseverance is admirable in one so young. Admirable in any being, honestly.

“Of course. You saw the look on her face when we informed her that you were to train her.” Matoya quits her work, her potion having reached the point where it merely needed to boil for a time, and crosses her arms. She doesn’t appear to be particularly invested in the conversation, but that is fairly typical when the conversation involves other people. “Shyness may have been behind her initial confusion, but it was when we mentioned her _potential_ that gave it away. She would have been more inclined to believe that the sky is green.”

Her master’s words make sense. Too much sense. They provide an alternate -and better- explanation to some of Lyse’s habits and reactions that she previously attributed to shyness or blithe unconcern.

“As for the neglect, it is more emotional neglect than physical. I doubt that she has ever received encouragement within Sharlayan. She is a refugee, first of all, which comes with plenty of its own trauma. Her issues controlling the incredible amount of aether she has? The last time a child showed such a problem, the only thing the Forum could think to do was dump you on _me_. And that when your abilities manifest in a manner that is well within their expertise to handle. Lazy fools,” Matoya complains. 

Tempted as she is to tease her master for her unintentional praising, what her words mean for Lyse dampers her mood. She has not been particularly free with her praising of Lyse; partially because she hasn’t been raised to be so, and partially because Lyse appeared to need little encouragement. The idea that it isn’t her cheerful attitude that makes her so pleased with little praise, but that it is a direct result of hardly having any for several years makes her stomach turn.

Thoroughly unsettled, she attempts to return to her work. The information does not bring her any closer to a solution for Lyse’s _recent_ strange behavior. Not yet. It seems her instincts are correct; some extra observation is in order.

_**~Lyse~** _

The best thing about her adjusted class schedule, she had been quick to realize, is that her lessons bells before dark, and she has an extra rest day. For many children, that spare time is spent working under apprenticeships to prepare them for the future, and it is no different for her.

Aside from her stamina and aether control work with Shtola, _her_ “apprenticeship” involves getting tossed around the training yard by whatever hunter-scholar is forced to put up with her for the day. Rest days became recovery days, as she is often too sore to do much beyond practice her control exercises. After over two moons of it, though, she is proud to say that she has adapted quite well; enough that she is willing to go for a light run to start her day.

She merely wants to tests her limits. It isn’t because she has no formal martial arts training or control training today, and staying home to finish her work packets gives her too much time to think.

And if she takes the path that leads to the Answering Quarter, it isn’t because she finds comfort in being close to Mhitra’s apartment, or hopes to see her as she travels to the Maker’s Quarter.

Instead of Mhitra, though, she finds Shtola leisurely walking toward the city proper, faerie apple in one hand and sack in the other. Her initial joy at seeing her friend/trainer is quickly squashed by the burden of her selfishness that she continues to struggle with. The conflicting emotions leave her flustered as Shtola teases her about working out on a rest day.

“While I applaud your enthusiasm and work ethic, I do wish you would _rest_ on your rest days. You more than deserve it for your progress. Have you eaten? Here, I have an extra.”

Shyly accepting the apple that is offered -and trying to fight a blush at Shtola’s casual praise of her training- she decides that any bad feelings can be figured out later; right now, she wants to enjoy her time with her friend.

With neither of them having important plans for the day, they wander around the Answering Quarter for bells. She is more than happy to help collect herbs and mushrooms, playfully dubbing Shtola her first “client” and herself as an adventurer. They swap stories about outdoor and training misadventures, and she is lectured on the uses of various plants in cooking. For once, she enjoys being lectured at; because it is Shtola doing the talking, and because the information is _useful_. Anything that can make food taste better for no gil is important.

Would Yda notice if she put fresh herbs in their soup?

Probably not. She eats too fast to care.

Occupied as they are, it is well past lunchtime before either of them realize it.

“Are you going to take all those herbs back to Matoya now?” she asks nonchalantly, pretending that the thought of Shtola leaving doesn’t drag her spirit down, doesn’t make the rest of the day seem unbearably boring in comparison.

She doesn’t want to be alone, but she has to remind herself that she can’t be _selfish_.

Shtola, to her relief, scoffs as she always does when someone brings up the Archon. “I had not planned to. They will keep for several bells. Unless, that is, _you_ wish to dine at the cave, rather than Artra’s noodle bar.”

“Noodles! You haven’t been there yet, have you? It’s great!”

Noodles for lunch, with Shtola. Nothing can ruin her day now, she sings to herself for the entire trek back to the city proper. When was the last time she had spent so much casual time with a friend? Or Yda? She can’t remember. Maybe she never has.

“As often as you dine on soup for dinner, I hadn’t thought you would be so eager to have noodles,” Shtola says dryly after she almost trips over a cobblestone in her skipping.

“Noodles are different!” she insists. “And since we have two people, we can get a discount on the meat buns. I’ve never been able to get them before.”

Shtola shrugs, but offers no argument. “If we’re unable to finish the steamed buns, I’m certain Mhitra would not mind having visitors that come bearing gifts.”

Visiting Mhitra sounds fun. She’s hesitant to bother the busy scholar -Mhitra has been quietly ranting about some dusty old book that she _finally_ bribed away from one of her peers- but if Shtola is going then it should be okay. Their walk to the Cenotaph is passed with multiple questions about Mhitra’s favorite foods, which leads to stories of odd things the two sisters -and their other clan members- had sampled as children. Nearing the busy section of the city, she grabs Shtola’s arm and leads her through the quieter alleys, claiming that it is a shortcut.

She has noticed that Shtola doesn’t really like being in large crowds. The noise makes her ears twitch constantly, her tail barely moves, and her shoulders are stiff whenever they need to wade through the crowded Sharlayan streets. She may not know _why_ her friend is so uncomfortable when surrounded by people, but it doesn’t matter; she won’t let her endure it if she has any say in the matter.

Having missed the lunch rush, there are several tables open at the noodle bar. She is waved at by the greeter -a teenage Elezen somehow related to the owner- at the ordering counter the moment they walk in. “Hi, Lyse! I haven’t seen you a nearly a moon!”

“Hi, Feo! I’ve been training a lot at the hall, and with my friend,” she waves her arms at Shtola with overly exaggerated motions, nearly hitting her. Wincing, she drops her arms to her sides and grins at her friend sheepishly.

Feowette crosses her arms and squints, leaning forward to examine Shtola critically. “Friend, huh? You’ve never brought a friend before.”

She grunts and mimics her pose. “I’ve never had one before. Can we order, please? I’m really hungry.”

They are handed menus and waved along with only a shrug and a roll of eyes. “You’re always hungry. Anyway, your favorite table is open. I’ll see if I can’t sneak some extra food onto your order. It’s nice to meet you, Lyse’s Friend.”

“Her” table is the one in the back corner of the room next to the fish tank -the occupants of which she has properly dubbed with worthy names- and furthest from the larger tables that are usually occupied by rowdy students. Shtola follows sedately, neatly avoiding the chairs and tables of the slightly cramped room as she reads through the menu.

“Puffer and Tyrant like to stare, and Dizzy swims in small circles. Like a tornado! He’s fun to watch.”

Shtola blinks and looks up from the menu in confusion, one ear twitching down. Curiosity, is what that means. Maybe. Her Shtola Dictionary is a work in progress, but she has the basics down. Shrugging, she points at the tank where Puffer and Tyrant are floating next to the bow of a moss covered pirate ship, watching them.

“... Noted. Now what sort of meat do you want in your noodles? Oh, the house special is quite a meal. Beef for you and shrimp for myself will be more than enough.”

Eyes wide, she tries to reject Shtola’s order. Not because she doesn’t desperately want to try the house specialty noodle bowl, but because it’s _expensive,_ as loaded with extras as it is.

She is given a blank look for her efforts. “ _I’m_ not paying for our lunch, Master Matoya is.”

“Oh. Okay.” Paying for their lunch sounds like something too considerate for the permanently grumpy Archon to do, but Matoya is _sometimes_ nice, so maybe it’s okay. Shtola wouldn’t lie to her, right? “Hey, if you’re Matoya’s student, and I’m _your_ student, does that make her my _gran_ -master?”

Shtola grins at her, the corners of her mouth twitching in a way that suggests she is desperately trying not to laugh. “I cannot say for sure. Perhaps you ought to ask her opinion on the matter.”

While she sees nothing wrong with the suggestion, Shtola’s scoffing at the idea makes her unsure. Smiling nervously, she says, “No, I think I better not.”

Giving in to her amusement, Shtola laughs softly. “Wise choice. I would not put it past her to turn you into a poroggo in retribution for your audacity.”

Though mildly disappointed that she doesn’t have an answer to her question, she’s content that it made her friend laugh. Nothing that makes Shtola smile is a waste. In fact, making her smile is going to be top priority from now on, because she has so little time left with her friend.

Soon, Shtola will leave. Soon, Mhitra won’t have a reason to talk to her. Soon, she will be back to watching Yda grow strong from afar.

And though she tries to convince herself that she’ll be fine, she isn’t sure what hurts her more: the idea of being lonely again, or how selfish it is that she wants Shtola to stay with her forever.

 


	3. Family

_**~Y’mhitra~** _

Sheer, unadulterated joy.

She has heard of the emotion, has even experienced it herself once or twice after certain breakthroughs in her research, but watching Lyse’s reaction to her new training tool forces her to rethink her former experiences with that emotion.

The tool in question is a stuffed griffin; one so large that its head nearly reaches past her knees when placed on the floor. Currently, it’s sharing her couch with Lyse, and it would not be much of an exaggeration to say that the two are the same height in their current position. Pure white, with a splash of brown and yellow for its claws, beak, and eyes, the griffin is quite a sight to behold. Shtola had prefaced its revealing with much emphasis on its purpose as a training tool, but that had not stopped Lyse from squealing in joy, hugging her sister, and then attaching herself to the thing. The girl cannot stop smiling, even briefly laughing to herself as she examines the griffin; looking away only to redirect her smile at Shtola every few seconds.

The adoration in her gaze is undeniable, and she half expects Lyse to declare her sister the center of the universe.

At the very least, Shtola is now the center of _one_ universe in particular.

Once her sister finishes her long-winded explanation of the griffin’s many features, she mutters under her breath to get her attention. “Shtola. Animating something of that size will pose quite a challenge for her.”

“Master Matoya spelled it for several layers of activation. As a training tool, it will keep for years,” her sister assures just as quietly. Not that they have to fear Lyse overhearing, occupied as she is with rambling out a list of potential names for her new toy. “I suspect she added some frivolous surprises into it as well, but I did not have the time to examine it thoroughly. She has had me running several errands as payment for the work. ...Far more errands than necessary for the task I requested of her, as usual.”

She has little trust in Matoya’s -or her sister’s, for that matter- idea of a “frivolous surprise,” but Lyse is a child more prone towards amusement than offense, and she decides to leave the matter alone. “Was it truly necessary to acquire a plush so _large_?” she asks instead, continuing to marvel at the size of the gift.

Shtola shifts and says nothing. Neither does she need to, because she can read her sister’s silences, read the way her tail stills, her ears lower, and she refuses to meet her gaze. Their father acts the same way when he is embarrassed.

“By Thaliak. You’re _doting_ on her,” she says in disbelief, nearly forgetting to keep her voice down she is so amused. It’s difficult not to be, when her sister is hardly one prone to such grand displays of affection.

A fond smile. The occasional comforting touch. Light scoldings to sleep/eat/rest more. That is how Shtola expresses her caring. Going out of her way to obtain and bespell a giant stuffed animal is so unusual, so out of character, that she has to wonder what has prompted such a display.

“Vochstein _glows_ when I channel aether!” Lyse exclaims before she can think to begin her teasing, holding up the newly named griffin and barely managing to contain a squeal.

“That’s pretty,” she says, genuinely impressed. Beneath the fur of the griffin are lines of purple light, running throughout the toy in strange patterns. It's hard to tell through the fluff, but there is a hint of a pattern that may in fact be runes.

“Your first exercise is to concentrate the aether along those lines. If it is spelled as myearly tools were, your progress will be continuously reverted until you complete the exercise,” Shtola says dryly. 

Continuous regression? That is a rather advanced feature for a training tool. Hadn’t her sister said that there were likelyseveralfeatures to the toy? Feeling the urge to examine the object herself, she laments her lack of curiosity when Shtola had delivered the box that morning. Her attention had been diverted by the immediate request that they invite Lyse to lunch after the two finish training, prompting her to focus on what sort of meal she had the ingredients to make. Which, of course, then led to her having to take a trip out to the market, as she apparently had run low on food enough for herself, much less her sister and an ever hungry ten year old child.

“Ah, you may want to test your limits at home, lest you become too tired to walk back. Thanks to your arduous morning training, Shtola may not have the strength to carry you this time,” she says with a laugh.

Her comment earns her a scowl from her sister, and an oddly strained smile from Lyse.

The strange expression is replaced by a bright and normal grin so quickly she can almost convince herself that she imagined it.

Almost.

It bothers her through lunch, through watching her sister give Lyse extra lessons for her tool - _toy_ \- and as they escort the girl home. She argues with herself that it had to have been imagined, but what if it wasn’t? Shtola _had_ asked, sennights ago, if she had noticed any odd behavior from the young refugee. What sort of problem could Lyse have? It can’t be control training. The girl is even more enamored with Shtola than ever, now, and has made commendable progress in her training. Is there a problem at home? Having met Yda Hext, it’s hard to imagine _that_ to be an issue; aside from the woman’s constant work and studying, Lyse is always effusive in her praise of her sole relative. Perhaps she is being bullied by other children or adults in the apartment complex. Many of Lyse’s comments that hint at her not having friends make that a credible concern. Bullies at lessons? _That_ seems to be likely, but she has never detected any hint of apprehension or fear when Lyse complains about lessons or her peers.

Truth be told, she pities any child who dares to physically bully Lyse. The girl has no concept of how strong she is as compared to “normal” people.

She is nearly resigned to the problem becoming a proper mystery when the answer arrives in the form of Yda and Papalymo meeting them near the complex. Once again, there is only a fleeting expression to suggest that Lyse is unhappy, but this time she is _certain_ of what she sees; resignation.

Foregoing her usual entertainment of counting how many veiled challenges Shtola and Yda can throw at each other in a single meeting, she discreetly watches the subject of their subtle battle herself. For all intents and purposes, Lyse appears to be simply bored by the scholarly talk, occupying herself with showing off Vochstein to an impressed Papalymo, who becomes far less impressed when the girl comments that the bird and him are almost the same size. More strained smiles and a sigh are all she collects for her efforts.

Shtola and her are just passing through the Cenotaph when the answer hits her. “Oh, she’s jealous,” she says, thinking of how Lyse’s eyes lingered on Yda or Shtola whenever the two traded barbed smiles.

Shtola blinks at her.

“Lyse,” she clarifies. Tapping her chin, she squints at the gleaming white pathway as she walks, rambling in a manner not unlike the girl herself as she tries to sort out the problem. “She is always so deferential to Yda, and quite happily so. To the point that she seems to draw a strict line in her mind as to what is hers and what is _Yda’s_. If that extends to a deeply personal level, then she may be struggling over classifying us as Yda’s friends rather than her own. She did meet us first, after all, and she has no other friends. That is a concern all on its own, honestly, but an entirely different one for the moment.”

Giving Shtola wry smile, she continues, “As attached to you in particular as she is, I am going to hazard a guess that she has, for the first time, found something she simply cannot _“_ give up” to her sister, as it were. Hmm. That doesn’t quite make sense, for obviously we can be friends with them both...unless she _expects_ to be ignored in favor of her sister. Yda does have a rather dominating personality, leading most of our conversation topics and...leaving Lyse out of it, expected as it is considering the scholastic level of our discussions.”

Taking a deep breath, she quits her rambling to cover her eyes and scowl. She can’t even be sure that her comments are true, and yet they _feel_ right as she says them. Her instincts have never let her down before, aside from a single regrettable mishap with raw fish.

Shtola sighs, staring into the distance with a pained expression. There is no surprise, however, at any of the theories she proposes. “I have had similar suspicions.”

“You ought to have told me,” she says, upset that it has taken her so long to notice after Shtola had mentioned her concerns. “Is that your reason for doting on her?”

“I leave in two moons,” she says stiffly. “That is not nearly enough time to heal _years_ worth of emotional damage. At the very least, I can assure her of my...friendship.” The last word is said with a light cringe. Her sister is so very uncomfortable speaking plainly about emotions, far more than she is about showing them.

That she is willing to do both for the sake of Lyse speaks volumes of her own affection for the girl.

Still, she cannot help but click her tongue in irritation. “There aresuch things as letters, and you speak as if she will be completely alone! Need I remind you that I _will_ continue to exist after the move. In fact, it may surprise you to know that I shall be living in Sharlayan as well,” she says, imitating her sister’s typical sarcastic drawl.

“...Sarcasm does not suit you.”

“Hmph. You’ve only your own influence to blame.”

_**~Yda~** _

She has never been one to scare easily, not after everything she has been through, after all the death and destruction she has survived.

Those _glowing eyes_ following her every move from the far corner of the darkened room, however, are giving her the creeps.

_Gods damn Y’shtola Rhul and that gods-damned toy._

That stupid griffin had been cute, at first. Unexpectedly big, but cute, and _fluffy_.

And might as well be sewed onto her sister. Lyse refuses to let the thing go unless absolutely necessary, and when she leaves for lessons in the morning, she has to be convinced to leave it at home. It’s comical, when she’s feeling generous about it.

But that was before Lyse had activated whatever stage it was that led to limited animation. It can move its head at this stage, so long as it has aether to fuel it. Aether that it gains through Lyse’s use of the thing. Which means it is essentially being charged every moment that Lyse is home, because she eats with it, studies with it, trains with it, and _sleeps_ with it, and it’s glowing eyes follow her every night as she climbs into her own bed.

Ugh.

Yet another strange new thing in Lyse’s life that she has to get used to, she supposes. It’s hardly fair of her baby sister to barrage her with changes in such a short amount of time, when she is already stretched thin and stressed out. First new lessons, then the ever challenging Y’shtola Rhul, then the much more pleasant Y’mhitra Rhul, and now an animated griffin. It’s a lot for her to try and take in, but complaining simply isn’t an option; she has never seen her sister so excited, so _happy_.

Sure, the bird is creepy as all hells at night, and sure, she hasn’t decided how she feels about the Rhul siblings befriending her ten year old sister, but what kind of responsible older sister would she be if she begrudged Lyse those things just because _she_ is slightly uncomfortable? She’ll be the first to admit that she isn’t very good at this whole sister-parent thing, even with the occasional bit of advice from Papalymo -talk about the blind leading the blind _there_ \- but destroying the cause of her sister’s happiness is not the way to go about it. That much she knows.

There is a light gasp and a grunt from the other bed, followed by the shuffle of her sister’s blanket as she moves around. When there is no further noise, she decides that Lyse is still asleep. Until she hears the sniffle.

“Nightmare?” she asks. Though she whispers, her voice echoes in their small, mostly empty room.

“I’m fine.” The words are muffled, as if a blanket or pillow is covering her mouth. 

She frowns. Those are words she seems to hear a lot, lately. “Come here, dummy.”

Lyse makes a series of disgruntled noises, either at the playful insult or because she doesn’t want to crawl out of from the warmth of her bed. As chilly as it is in their apartment, she assumes it’s the latter. The other bed creaks, but instead of rustling sheets and footsteps, there is an even louder creak, a small “hup,” and then purple glowing eyes are flying through the air via the tight grip of Lyse’s arms. She rolls over just fast enough to avoid being crushed by her sister.

Grimacing, she resigns herself to sharing her bed with Lyse _and_ that cursed griffin. Why spell it so that onlythe eyes glow at night? What kind of sadistic person does that? Ugh.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. At least it’s fluffy.”

Lyse freezes in the middle of crawling under the covers. “What?”

“Uh. Nothing.”

“What’s wrong with Vochstein?” she asks, offended on behalf of her best -inanimate- friend. The eyes of the stuffed animal are bright enough that she can see her sister’s pout as she clutches it to her chest.

Gods damn it. “Nothing. Nothing. He’s just a little...big. Isn’t he?” Smirking, she drags Lyse down next to her and holds her captive in her arms. “You aren’t so small yourself, you know. That’s why you’re falling off your bed now.”

“It was once! And I got stuck in my blanket, that’s all!”

She snickers through her sister’s complaints, making them both comfortable. It’s a tight fit even without the griffin. Lyse has grown since the last time they shared a bed, she realizes sadly. Given another couple of years, she may even grow to be taller than her.

 _Maybe as tall as dad_.

“What were you dreaming about?”

Lyse doesn’t answer immediately, her arms shifting to clutch the griffin tighter. “I don’t remember,” she whispers. “I never do. I’m not sure it was a nightmare. Not a scary one, anyway.”

Stress dreams, perhaps. There _are_ a lot of changes in Lyse’s life right now. However good the recent changes are for her, stress is still stress, and the upcoming move to the Sharlayan Island -or more importantly, the upcoming loss of Y’shtola Rhul as a teacher- is hardly helping matters.

“Yda?”

“Hmm?” When there is no response, she opens her eyes and shakes Lyse’s elbow, just in case her sister is dozing off. “What is it?”

“I…” Lyse trails off, then clears her throat and continues weakly, “I don’t remember them anymore.”

“Them” can be anyone. Old teachers, old friends, fellow refugees that they lost contact with after Gridania turned them away.

But it isn’t. It isn’t _just_ anyone that puts pain in her sister’s voice, that causes her to sniffle. It’s _Them_ , and it takes all of her self control not to accidentally crush Lyse for how abruptly all her old pain rises.

For how abruptly she realizes that she can’t quite picture _Them_ clearly.

Blinking away tears, she thanks the gods for the darkness that hides her expression. “Don’t be silly,” she says, voice thicker, wobblier than normal, in spite of her best efforts to sound nonchalant. “You’re a shorter, skinnier version of mom. Right down to your ungodly appetite, fixation on griffins, and bad habit of playing with wild animals.”

A gasp. “She liked griffins?” Lyse, now wide awake, asks eagerly as she sits up and stares down at her with wide eyes, Vochstein staring with her.

The question hits her like a lance to her heart and she nearly forgets how to breathe. Gods take it, Lyse should _know_ that. Even if she was too young to truly remember, she should know, because _she_ should have told her. When had they last talked about their parents? When had they last truly talkedat all? Have they ever? Just how badly has she failed her sister?

Swallowing several times, she laughs to hide her attempts to clear her throat, to hide her sniffling because tears are escaping from her eyes and she knows that she can’t stop them now. “Liked? Ha! She liked griffins as much as you like _this_ monster. You know, she had a griffin themed custom vest. The hood had little ears, even. It was a gift from dad; she used to say that she decided he would be her husband when he gave it to her. Even though he only did it because he accidentally ruined her favorite jacket. They weren’t even dating.”

She remembers their mom proudly telling her that story, remembers sitting on the floor of their small living room, rolling her eyes along with their father while a young Lyse toddled around in the aforementioned griffin vest, pretending to fly. That had been before things got _really_ bad. Before Curtis Hext spat in the mad king’s eye and became the Voice of the Resistance. Before...before Kysa Hext was killed by the Corpse Brigade.

An idea occurs to her, then, and she smirks. “If giving griffin themed items is a family courtship practice, I’m going to need to have a _chat_ with your little crush,” she snickers ominously, relishing both the idea of threatening Y’shtola Rhul and Lyse’s immediate horrified protest.

“I DO _NOT_ HAVE A CRUSH ON HER!”

“It’s okay to like her. She’s smart, and strong, and pretty,” she says mockingly, repeating Lyse’s words from the night Y’shtola took her home. Just who is the kid trying to fool? Honestly.

“Erk. Well. Yeah but! She’s. She’s _too_ smart, and too strong, and too pretty for _me_. She’s definitely...way better for...you?”

The noise that escapes her mouth is one of pure disgust. By Rhalgr, her and _Y’shtola_? Dating? They’d kill each other first! “Ew! Gross! What?! No. _No thank you_! You can have her!” She pauses, rethinking her words. “Uh. In…uh, ten years, got it? Sister’s ord-ACK!”

Lyse, unable to take the teasing, throws herself on top of her with a strangled yell of outrage and a swift hit to her stomach. “She is _not_ gross! You just have terrible taste in people!”

After letting out an undignified yelp -since when has Lyse been that strong?- she attempts wrestles her baby sister into submission. “So eager to defend your future wife, are you?!”

“Aaaagh YDA!”

“Ack! Hold still you little monster!”

“Take it back!”

“Make me!”

“Gaaaaah!”

_**~Y’shtola~** _

“Ten years and not a moment sooner!”

She blinks at Yda’s non-sequitur and waits for an explanation.

“I’ll be watching you, Rhul!” With those words, Yda dodges Lyse’s attempt at an unusually aggressive kick and runs off, leaving them to their training session.

If looks could kill, she is certain Yda Hext would be a pile of ash on the ground, so deadly is Lyse’s glare.

“Can I teach Vochstein to shoot fire from his eyes?”

“...No.” Knowing her master, such a thing is not _entirely_ out of the realm of possibility, but better to not encourage the girl’s sudden homicidal urges.

Lyse grumbles, still glaring at her sister’s fading figure. Briefly, she considers inquiring after the strange interaction, but no. She senses that she would rather not know.

“Right... Shall we start then? If you reach your goal today, I’ll buy dinner as a reward.” Truthfully, she had simply forgotten to eat lunch, but food is always an excellent motivator for Lyse.

“Shish kabob?!” Lyse asks immediately, anger forgotten with the promise of food.

“As you wish, but _only_ if you achieve your goal.”

“Consider it done!”

_**~Y’mhitra~** _

The area that the group had chosen for a picnic is a quiet, picturesque clearing next to the river, far from both the city and any feral beasts that might be inclined to attack them.

That is, it is quiet until the battle starts between the Hext sisters. Papalymo, Shtola, and herself ignore the two from the safety of their blanket, choosing instead to continue eating and chatting. Their valiant efforts to pretend that they three are the only people present are ruined by a loud splash.

“HAH! WHO WINS NOW?!”

Yda sputters from the river she has been pushed into, shaking her head like a dog to clear the hair from her eyes. “YOU BRAT.” 

“...Those two have been...playful lately,” she says, dubiously amused as she watches Yda capture and drag a struggling Lyse into the river. While it’s heartening to see the sisters apparently bonding, the manner in which they do so is unusual to the Sharlayan born and raised scholars. She wonders what prompted the change, when less than a moon before it seemed that the two rarely ever shared more than superficial chatter.

Shtola shakes her head, watching the sisters out of the corner of her eyes. They _had_ been discussing her upcoming travels into Eorzea, debating which city-state would be more interesting -apparently neither Yda nor Lyse care much for Gridania- and how long her travels would keep her out of Sharlayan.

“ _I’ll keep training! You’ll see. I’ll be better every time you come back!_ ”

“ _Yeah, she’ll be waiting like a good little wAGH!_ ”

The comment, however it was meant to end, sparked the current playfight between the two. Papalymo -as the oldest- had vainly growled at them to behave, but after being given a shoe to his face for the effort, he had left them alone. They aren’t seriously trying to hurt each other; in fact, they seem to be enjoying themselves. It is a marked difference from their earlier interactions; from Yda’s lack of interest and Lyse’s abject refusal to overly bother her sister.

Lyse of two sennights ago would never have pushed her sister into a river.

Yda of two sennights ago would never have treated her sister as a skilled -though still learning- fighter in her own right.

“It appears our concern was undeserved. They are taking care of themselves,” Shtola mutters, cutting the sweet bread with slow, deliberate movements. She is quite content to ignore the fuss in the background while she examines Vochstein, a light smirk playing at her lips at the sound of Lyse successfully pulling of a strong aether enhanced kick.

No. Knowing her sister, she is more satisfied by Yda’s resulting shriek when she gets a face full of water.

“Concern? Was something amiss?” Papalymo asks. Seeing that Shtola is nearly done, he twists and calls to the battling sisters. “Dessert is ready!”

The splashing and fighting stops immediately. Quickly claiming her own portion before the two ever-hungry Ala Mhigans -or Papalymo- set their sights on the food, she settles for enjoying her snack while the others scold and argue playfully. Papalymo lectures the sisters on the health dangers of playing in the river; or, he tries to. Yda, sitting at the corner of the blanket, watches him blankly as she chews, and Lyse is flat out ignoring him in favor of serving Shtola more juice with one hand while piling extra cookies on her own plate with the other.

“As I have no desire to eat waterlogged cookies, note that you are to eat _everything_ you touch,” Shtola says plainly, only the smallest downturn of her ears to indicate her threat.

Lyse’s hand pauses halfway to the cookies, then retracts. “I’ll start with this, then.”

“Never too early to start practicing those “yes, dears,” is it?” Yda snickers. Her voice is so low that she nearly can not hear her, and no others give any reaction to her words -and what a reaction she would have gotten had Shtola or Lyse heard-.

So. _That_ is what has changed. Somehow, the Hext sisters have come to an understanding - _mis_ understanding?- concerning their individual relationships, and who has a...claim, as it is, on Shtola. In Lyse’s mind, at any rate. Yda and Shtola have been so caught up in trying to protect Lyse from _each other_ that they haven’t considered the idea of being proper friends, much less close enough that Shtola would somehow prefer the older sister over the younger.

Retreating into a contemplative frame of mind, she carefully watches how Yda and Shtola interact, how they swing between cordiality and near rudeness with every other sentence. She watches how Lyse contently helps herself to the unguarded cookies, how the child beams when Shtola absently eats the sugary snacks she surreptitiously -and persistently- places in her hand as she is distracted by conversation. She watches how Lyse scowls whenever Yda pokes fun at Shtola in a way that she does not approve of, automatically defensive of her friend and trainer.

Watches how Shtola gives Yda a smug grin whenever Lyse jumps to her defense, and how Yda huffs and drops the subject every time.

Well. If her sister ever becomes _too_ incorrigible where Yda Hext is concerned, she shall have to kindly inform her that her future engagement to Lyse has already been approved by the woman she so enjoys antagonising. The reaction it will earn her promises to be amusing, and will keep her sister sulking for sennights.

_**~Y’mhitra~** _

The Sharlayan airship landing is a small, open roofed affair. Before the decision to abandon the colony had been made, there had been talks of expanding the building as the city continued to grow by the year. The moment the decision was made, however, traffic began to slow as many decided to preemptively move to the Sharlayan islands, her clan included.

As such, it is unsurprising that there are few other people in the landing with their group this afternoon.

“Don’t forget to keep snacks on hand for emergencies. You never know when you might get lost!”

“Yes.”

“And if anyone tries to intimidate you, blast them away! But do it in a public place so everyone can see and know to leave you alone.”

“I absolutely will _not_. Who is giving you that manner of advice? ”

“And make sure you _sleep_ properly! I don’t want you to get hurt because you were too tired to run again!”

It’s so very difficult to contain her laughter as she watches Lyse -Vochstein firmly in her arms as usual- sternly give an enormously patient Shtola a veritable essay of orders for surviving in Eorzea. For the most part, she has sound advice; the girl spends as much time out of doors as possible, and the Hext sisters are not in the greatest of financial situations. They have learned to make the best of the little they acquire, especially in regards to food. Lyse’s sparring lessons have brought her in contact with many travelers, as well, who have all been happy to tell the young girl stories.

“A good wife indeed,” she mutters, recalling Yda’s interrupted comment from their picnic three sennights ago.

Yda, standing next to her, chokes on her fruit in a sudden fit of laughter, drawing the attention of their respective sisters. Waving them off, she cannot help her own fit of giggling when Yda needs to lean against her for support. Shtola and Lyse reluctantly return to their conversation, shooting them concerned glances every so often as they continue to laugh.

Their amusement is not eased as Shtola takes control of the conversation in order to give Lyse her ownorders per training, studying, Vochstein, and what constitutes a _healthy_ meal.

“Forgive my tardiness. ...What has gotten into you, Yda?” Papalymo asks. He is slightly out of breath, having rushed over from his last class to say his goodbyes.

Face red and struggling to catch her breath, Yda shrugs. “Oh, nothing to worry about. And you didn’t need to rush. Those two aren’t finished fussing over each other yet.”

Fussing is certainly the word for it, though she is more inclined to believe the two are merely doing their best to keep themselves occupied while they wait for the airship to start boarding. Traveling out into the world is a daunting task for her sister, who has spent most of her life secluded in a cave, and Lyse is losing her best friend. Though both are doing well to feign composure, this will be a trial for them.

“We shall have a move of our own to occupy ourselves with. She’ll not have time to grieve overly much,” Papalymo says, not unkindly. 

He is not wrong. They all are worn from the preparations for the move, and their work will not end anytime soon. Resettling in new homes, new classes. Learning new routines, finding new trainers. The ease of the physical move will hardly lesson the emotional burden of abandoning the colony.

How must the refugees feel, to be forced to leave yet another home? Are they more hardened than those who are leaving the _only_ home they have ever known, or worse off at the forceful reminder of the circumstances behind their fleeing of Gyr Abania five years ago?

“Oh, I better remind her,” Yda mumbles. Then, much louder, says, “Hey, don't forget your present!”

Lyse yelps , shoves Vochstein into Shtola’s arms, and begins digging through her pockets. When that search proves to be in vain, she roughly throws down her school bag and continues her search by tossing out the contents frantically. Shtola waits patiently, gently denying the necessity of a present and watching the flying notebooks with exasperation.

“She better not have forgotten it. We had to deal with Archon Matoya for that thing. It was like facing death itself,” Yda says with a scowl and shudder.

Papalymo rolls his eyes. He is the only one of the group who hasn’t met Matoya, and despite the assurances of all that he is better off _never_ meeting her, he is very sullen about that fact. “How brave of you,” he says condescendingly.

“She threatened to turn us into poroggos five different times! In five different languages!” Yda hisses under her breath, the grip on her arm tightening almost uncomfortably.

Honestly. The Hext sisters are truly a pair prone to dramatics.

“FOUND IT!”

Case in point. Lyse is proudly holding up a pair of necklaces that shine in the sun.

“Are those?”

“Crystals?” she hears Shtola finish.

Lyse shoves one in her startled sister’s hand, rambling so fast her words are nearly indecipherable. She does, however, manage to discern “Matoya,” “spelled” and “aether,” which is...actually not that helpful.

“Lyse dragged me to Matoya’s to get some ideas, but she told us Y’shtola didn’t need anything else to lug around. Then she complained about Leveilleur, and the other Archons, then she decided to give Lyse some crystals for a necklace. Which she _then_ demanded payment for in the form of errands.” Yda releases her arm and moves away to cross her arms and tap her foot. She spares a moment of regret, for the woman radiates a very comforting warmth that eases the bite of the Dravanian winds. 

“They’re just crystals, but I guess Matoya thought she would feel better having something with Y’shtola’s aether to carry around. Y’shtola gets one too, of course. It took Lyse half a day to channel her aether properly for it, but she was determined. It was a lot of work for something Y’shtola won’t need, in my opinion. _She_ won’t be the one suffering from separation anxiety.”

The words cause her to sigh, her eyes lingering on the bright new tattoo that graces her sister’s neck. “No,” she says softly, “she never has been prone to such things.”

Shtola has always been rash, quick to dive into new projects and new adventures without worrying about what she may leave behind in the process. She cares, of course. That, she will never doubt, but her sister’s affection is...distant; secondary to her studies.

She will be truly surprised if any of them receive letters from her sooner than five, maybe six moons. Five, maybe six letters is all she received from her in the last ten years, truth tell.

The more she thinks about it, the more worried she is. For Lyse.

‘ _Ha. Now who’s being dramatic? Shtola isn’t some unreliable suitor playing with the girl’s heart._ ’

She mulls over the stray thought. It’s a ridiculous idea, all joking about Lyse’s crush aside. And yet. As the first round of calls are made for boarding, she quickly steals her sister away, citing the need for sisterly talk. Lyse, ever obliging, nods sagely and scampers off to welcome Papalymo.

“Now I do not doubt you will be occupied in your traveling,” she starts before Shtola can preemptively reassure her, “but, I beg of you, _please_ do not wait two years before sending a letter. For Lyse’s sake, if nothing else.”

Exasperation turns into perplexion, then into indignation. “I would never-”

“I know you, Shtola. You are dedicated, as Yda is.” Her sister scowls at the interruption, but she stubbornly presses on, pleading her case. “It is the truth. Your dedication and focus is admirable, yes, but it comes at a price. _I_ may understand your nature, but Lyse is young and thinks the world of you.”

Shtola is set to argue, but the truth of her words silences her. “I have not been the...best of sisters. That I acknowledge. Mayhap that is why I clash with Yda so. Had I met her first, I’m certain we would have gotten along famously,” she says with a self-deprecating smile. Sighing, she holds up the crystal that Lyse had insisted she put around her neck herself. The one infused with the girl’s aether. “Worry not. I may be prone to losing myself in my work, to ignoring the passage of time, but I now have a constant reminder of home.”

Overcome with emotion, she pulls Shtola into a tight hug. “Oh, Shtola. Take care of yourself out there. Strong as you are, the world is not a kind place, and it will be many more years before Lyse will catch up to you.”

The insinuation that Lyse will eventually take her place beside her sister is not one that Shtola has ever considered, judging by the contemplative look on her face. “There are many paths available to her, and it is not for us to press her on any specific one,” she says firmly.

Pulling away, she pats Shtola’s cheek in a way that borders on condescending. “Oh, you truly _are_ quite oblivious at times, dear sister.” The huff she gets for her action causes her to smile as she turns and heads to the others, who are waiting patiently for their chance to say goodbye.

The banter between them all is lighthearted. They are not separating forever, after all. Promises and challenges are made, some stray tears are shed, and laughter is shared until the final boarding call.

As the airship grows smaller, Lyse leans against her side and grasps her hand. Her new necklace, glowing with Shtola’s aether, clinks at the movement. “Don’t be lonely, Mhitra. You’re family now.”

Her breath catches as Yda throws an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. “Yup. Better get used to it.”

They are content to bask in the affection that eases their grief, until Yda inevitably ruins the moment by commenting, “Of course, it’ll be ten years before I allow it to be _official_.”

“YDA!”

Tapping her cheek thoughtfully, she says, “Ten seems excessive. I do believe our Lyse reaches adulthood in _six_ years.”

“Mhitra! No! Not you too!” Lyse exclaims, aghast. Pouting at her when she giggles, the girl buries her face into Vochstein’s back and groans miserably.

Ushering them all to the food district, teasing, laughing, and making plans for their own coming relocation, she muses on her new status. An honorary Hext? She quite likes the sound of that. Those two, they are special, and she has a feeling that her life has just changed for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we reach the end! I hope you enjoyed the story, and there IS a sequel in the works covering the ten years between this and Bahamut. If you're interested, let me know!


End file.
